


A Feast For a Beggar

by Ethnee



Category: Frostpunk (Video Game)
Genre: Communism incoming, Gen, Prison, The beginning of a bad time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethnee/pseuds/Ethnee
Summary: Daniel was arrested for being a member of the Londoners, along with his friend and cohort James. Life in the prisons is different from what he expected.Meanwhile, the Captain of the post-winter city is grappling with her unhappy citizens, despite giving them everything she thinks they deserve.A quick short depicting a pivotal moment.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	A Feast For a Beggar

_The Captain loves you. The Captain cares about you. The Captain wants you to be better._

The words droned, dull and flat, from the speakers perched in every corner of the prison lunchroom, mottled brass nailed into cold concrete. Daniel shivered and stabbed at his tray of rations, watching the steam rise.

A pile of mashed potatoes delicately cupped a lump of meat dripping with thick gravy, mushed peas stacked up beside it on one corner of the plate, and grease leaked from the pores of the two small sausages that had been on special today. Hot tea filled the mug to his right, dark brown turned light and creamy from the fake milk they managed to wring out of the more exotic plants in the hothouses.

A feast for a beggar, and Daniel resented the hell out of it.

Daniel sighed and shoved a spoonful of gravy-thick mush into his mouth. “Does it ever bother you, James? That they spoil us here?”

James, gnawing on his hunk of meat like a dog, barely spared Daniel a glance. “Unh-uh. ‘Astes goo’ uh me’.”

“It’s not about it tasting good, James. It’s the principle of the thing. It feels more like they should be feeding us -- I don’t know, bread and gruel.”

James shrugged affably and swallowed a much bigger chunk than seemed advisable. “Maybe all that ‘Captain loves you’ guff is the truth.” His eyes ran over Daniel’s plate. “Are you gonna eat that, or keep whining about principles?”

Daniel sighed and slid his plate to the left, where James eagerly gorged himself on its contents. “What about--” He paused, eyeing the guards at the corners of the room, and lowered his voice as he leaned closer. “What about London, James? What about getting out of here? A hot meal doesn’t change the fact that this place, that this city--”

“Is a helluva lot better off than Winterhome turned out.” James knocked back a long gulp of tea and sighed with satisfaction, his breath steaming like a smoking chimney in the cold lunchroom. “And wasn’t that the point, Danny? Not turnin’ out like Winterhome? If things are so good here -- what’ve we really got to worry about?”

Daniel leaned back, a frown creasing his lips and brow, and James returned to his meal. Daniel’s eyes drifted around the room, to the twenty-odd other prisoners in matching, clumsily-sewn attire, to the fur-clothed guards with their batons and stun-wands. A record scratched, and the drone of speakers began anew.

_The Captain cares about you. The Captain wants you to be better. The Captain wants you to listen, and obey._

Cassandra’s jaw clenched, and with a snarl, she flung a hand across the table, sending a dozen tiny figurines tumbling over the edge and skipping across the floor. _Clink! Clink! Clink!_ Tiny iron houses hit the boards and fell silent.

The air tensed as the half-dozen people behind her held their breaths. “My Captain--” one dared, black-gloved hand extended towards her back.

Cassandra, deathly still and silent after her outburst, slammed her fists against her table, felt the wood splinter and groan, then marched away, the tip of her thumb held between her teeth as she scowled and paced. “Why is it not enough for them?” she demanded, of no one in particular. “Do they not have all they need to be happy?”

“Yes, Captain--”

“Warm beds? Filling meals? Schools for their children?”

“Yes, Captain--”

Cassandra smashed the side of her fist against the wall, the blow doing more harm to her than the building. Pain echoed through her hand as she stalked to the other side of the table, kicking aside a fallen miniature watchtower with a huff. Then, teeth bared: “Why must they be so difficult?”

The room fell silent once more. Her advisors huddled together at the opposite end of the table, shoulders pressed against each other as if numbers alone could protect them from her wrath. “Perhaps,” said one, breaking the line of bodies and stepping into the Captain’s gaze, “they see little value in survival if there is nothing beyond it. If they have no higher calling.”

“What higher calling do they _want_ ?” Cassandra’s voice peaked in frustration and disgust. “They already have so much more than they ever did in the Old World. Everyone is fed, everyone is given housing. They can drink, they can fight, they can--” She flapped a hand. “-- _pray_ to what gods they please or fuck who they wish. What else is there?”

“Comfort is not enough, Captain,” another advisor said, standing alongside the first. “Hot meals and clean shitters are how we get by, yes, but the people have nothing to believe in, nothing to enjoy. Nothing to hope for.”

“ _Hope_ ,” Cassandra spat, bitterly. She stood, a sudden slowness gracing her movements, like the coiling of a spring, the readying of a blade. “The world is dead and we suffer through a never-ending winter, and you speak to me of hope.”

The men and women opposite her fell silent. Cassandra stared off into space, when her eyes caught on a glint of light shining from the floor. One of the small iron figurines reflected the dim light of the bulb hanging above her strategy table. Cassandra leaned down and plucked it from the floor, held gingerly between her thumb and forefinger.

It was a rough model of a basic house in town. The engineer that had made these did so with more love than perhaps they deserved, etching out the lines of wooden walls and the slopes of sheet roofs. A single square in the second story of the figurine was criss-crossed with lines to look like window panes, and the metal gleamed like glass in the light.

Cassandra’s shoulders relaxed and the fire in her dimmed, fury melting from her face and leaving weariness behind. She placed the figurine back on the table, in the second “ring” of buildings surrounding the all-important Generator. Her touch was soft against the fabric-covered table. “What would you have me do?” she murmured.

The advisors muttered among themselves. “We need a way to communicate with the people,” one said. “Your intentions are good, as always, Captain, but we cannot blame the populace for what they do not understand.”

“A school, then?”

“A... news hub. A place where we can send out information, report the stories of town watchmen doing their jobs, highlight important members of the community, inspire people to do as we wish.”

“People enjoy having a narrative to follow, Captain,” another advisor added, leaning in earnestly. “They need something to contribute to. Clearer orders, as it were.”

Cassandra continued staring off into space, listening to the proposals and mulling them over in her head. “How long would such a place take to build? Are there enough workers to staff it?”

“We have some viable candidates from the refugees the scouts brought in, and we could move some people around between departments. We could have it running in a day or two, if we worked quickly.”

“We must always work quickly, Viktor.” A pregnant pause passed. “Very well. Get it done. It doesn’t need to be pretty, just functional.”

A few people rushed off. “What should our first missive be, Captain? What do you want the people to know?”

As Cassandra thought, the other advisors took advantage of her calmed mood and began replacing each fallen miniature back on the table. Piece by piece, her model city returned to the board, forming a misshapen circle that branched off in several places to form the mining district, the frozen corpsepile, and other parts of town. Cassandra watched some two dozen tiny houses be placed on that board, each representing at least ten people who lived in her city.

“I want them to know that I love them,” she said, voice husky. “And that we do everything in our power to ensure their safety and comfort. No matter how long or how hard it is. Everything I do, I do for them.”

Satisfied, her advisors began filtering out of the room. “Viktor,” Cassandra said, and the man stopped. She gestured, and he closed the door, leaving them alone in the silent office. Cassandra pulled up a chair and took a seat. Viktor acted without prompting, coming up to stand before her with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for orders. His cheeks bristled with salt-pepper scruff, red nose contrasting with dark eyes.

Cassandra set her jaw and steepled her fingers, brow furrowed with an intense, pensive expression. “How goes the Londoners?”

“Some are about ready for release, Captain. We’ll be ready for a new batch of inmates shortly.”

“Mm.” Her lips pursed. “How many are estimated to remain in the city?”

Viktor’s jaw flexed as his teeth ground together. “About sixty, ma’am. Give or take.” He paused. “Being roughly 25% of our population, we won’t have enough time to process them all before their supposed departure date. Our efficiency would be crippled.”

Cassandra’s expression grew dark, and cold, like sunset shadows over an icy tundra. “I want them all imprisoned. Send out your men, and track them down. Take people from other departments to staff the prison. Build a _second_ prison, if you must.”

Viktor started. “Captain?”

Cassandra’s eyes met Viktor’s without feeling. “No one is going to leave Snowspire, Viktor. No one leaves my city.”


End file.
